


Do Androids Have Birthdays?

by tiredRobin



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Autistic Connor, Birthdays, Friendship, Gen, Post Good End, it doesnt come up! and i am still learnin how to write autistic characters, oh yes ps i absolutely despise david cage, thats just my headcanon for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 09:17:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredRobin/pseuds/tiredRobin
Summary: Hank’s got a dumb question.





	Do Androids Have Birthdays?

**Author's Note:**

> that’s it, that’s the fic. (some rambling below! feel free to skip it.)
> 
> sorry that both title and summery are lackluster! i know in order to catch people’s attention i need to _try_ but listen i wrote this last night an hour after i was supposed to sleep because i’ve been thinking about it for ages and i haven’t seen this mentioned, personally, so i jammed this out on my phone real quick
> 
> i just like writing simple, gentle moments, and getting noticed isn’t important so much as just getting these ideas _out_ is

“Hey.”

Connor looks up. His expression is unassuming and yet Hank manages to feel scrutinized all the same, put under the microscope, and he knows Connor has no reason to do that and that it’s just his own stupid nerves getting in the way. Which is stupid, because it’s Connor and maybe it’s a dumb question but Connor wouldn’t laugh at him. 

Shit, can he even laugh?

A question for another day. 

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Connor prompts, and Hank realizes he’s been quiet for too long. 

“Sorry, yeah. Uh.” Here goes. “D’ androids have birthdays?”

Connor blinks. “What?” 

Hank feels something uncomfortable rise in his chest and he doesn’t panic, per se, but he does retreat, _nerves_ getting the best of him. “Never mind.” He waves a hand dismissively, looks back to his computer to avoid Connor’s gaze. 

It’s quiet. Connor doesn’t shift much for a moment and Hank swears internally because Connor isn’t going to let it go. What’d he expect, really? He isn’t embarrassed, no, but he’s uncomfortable, he feels kind of stupid for asking and Connor’s confused reply had only worked to impound that and it’s really for the best if Connor just let it go. But he won’t. It’s Connor. 

“Androids are not born, Lieutenant,” Connor replies simply, and there’s no judgement in his voice. It’s answer enough, and yet not one at all. 

“I _know_ that. That’s not what I’m asking,” Hank grouses. Christ, he’s getting defensive.

“I know.”

Hank looks up sharply and Connor is smiling, just a little, a tiny quirk of the lips like he still hasn’t gotten used to smiling or like he’s trying not to boast it, Hank isn’t sure. Either way it’s enough to clue him in that Connor is teasing him, and Hank relaxes. “Uh-huh,” he snarks right back. “Then answer the damn question.”

The corners of Connor’s mouth lift further. “I did,” he says easily. 

“Damnit, Connor!” Hank snaps, and that little smile unfurls further, and Hank feels _laughed at,_ damn it all, Connor isn’t _supposed_ to laugh at him. He barely resists the urge to (maybe over-dramatically) smack his hand against is desk. “You know what I mean!” 

The smile stays for just a moment more before it seems to… to drift away; it isn’t _gone,_ there’s still that look in Connor’s eyes like he’s laughing a little, but otherwise he visibly sobers up. “Although we don’t have birthdays, exactly, I’ve heard some androids select a date in which to celebrate something similar.”

“Like?” Hank prompts after a grumbly moment of silence. 

“Some select the day they were activated; other’s choose when they were purchased, although they are a grand minority. Many have chosen the eleventh and the twelfth of November.”

Hank pauses; they’re important dates, he knows as much, and it takes a moment to remember why. “The day Marcus succeeded,” he realizes. 

Connor nods. “The eleventh is when many deviated. It seems to be a trend to choose the day one deviated.” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “Although I suspect if enough androids select these dates, there’s a high probability of them becoming holidays.”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “Huh.” In retrospect, it makes sense. Many major turnabouts in history become holidays, after all; if so many androids choose the eleventh and twelfth as their, what, deviancy days? it really does seem possible for it to become a holiday, officially recognized or not.

There’s a moment of consideration between them, and then Connor pulls Hank from his musings. “That aside, not every android chooses to have a ‘birthday’ of sorts. I don’t know all the reasonings behind either decisions. Why do you want to know?”

Hank feels that uncomfortable feeling again—not anxiety, not embarrassment, but something like both and like neither all at once, and wow, alright, he really can’t blame Connor for struggling with emotions when he can’t place his own half the time—and he squashes it down. “I just, uh. I was wondering if you chose one for yourself.”

Even four months after deviancy, Connor doesn’t express much emotion with his face unless there really is reason to—and the “reason to” is usually interrogations, or when Connor is thinking hard about something, or whenever Hank says something that makes him smile. (Or just about whenever Connor talks to him, Hank realizes absently.)

Right now his expression twists visibly into a mixture between surprise and confusion, like he hadn’t seen the question coming. Knowing Connor, he really probably hadn’t. He’s always a little surprised when Hank asks him “personal questions”, although less so now than before. 

Hank waits, patient, as Connor’s brows furrow together, gaze sliding to the side. “I—“ he starts and then stops, lips pursing. “I haven’t given it much though,” he admits finally. 

“Well, why not?”

“It just—I—“ he sort of stumbles over his words. Hank refuses to find it anything synonymous with endearing, thank you very much. “I guess it just never really occurred to me. No one’s asked me about it.”

Hank’s a little surprised by that. “No one? None of your friends?”

“It just never came up.”

“Huh.” Hank shrugs after a long moment. “Well, hey, if you think of somethin’, lemme know. You ought to have a birthday too.” He knows Connor is young. It’s an odd concept to apply to androids when they come out of the factory with all the maturity and functionality of adults, but the reality of it is that Connor is, what? Less than a year old? Seven months or something like that, he sure as hell doesn’t know. 

And with how much death he’s seen...

Hank shakes himself from those thoughts, shoves down the odd sensation growing in his stomach. It isn’t good to go down that route, he’d decided before, and he refuses to now. He’ll start getting all existential and sentimental over lost childhood or some shit and no one needs any of that. He frowns and focuses on his screen; he’s got a file to read and a report to write and shit to do, no time to focus on unimportant details. 

The silence that falls between them feels somehow incomplete, like there’s something left unsaid, but it is otherwise confortable. The sounds of the office seem to drift back into their space; distant and hardly registered, Hank hears Gavin Reed saying something probably annoying and unnecessary. 

The clock ticks on. An hour cuts by. He’s nearly through with his report when Connor’s voice breaks through the reverie.

“November fifth.”

“What?” It’s Hank’s turn to be confused. 

“For my... birthday, I suppose. November fifth.”

Hank tries to apply any level of importance to that date, but nothing comes to mind. “Why’s that?”

Connor looks up, meets his eyes briefly. His expression conveys a level of uncertainty and he hesitates a moment too long. “It’s the day we met.” 

Hank stares. 

Connor’s eyes slide back to his monitor. 

Hank stares, and he keeps staring, and Connor doesn’t _hunch_ but it’s like he does anyway; something about him changes when he’s uncertain, and it’s always more obvious when they aren’t at the office, always easier to see in the privacy and familiarity of the house. Hank can see it now and he realizes he’s been staring for a long time, and he also realizes that something behind his eyes is burning and something is sitting lodged in his throat. 

He swallows around it and resists the urge to swear and forces himself to stop _staring_ like that, although he doesn’t yet look away from Connor. “That’s—“ he has to pause to clear his throat. “—yeah. That works.”

Connor peers at him.

Hank musters a smile. 

After a second, Connor smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! leave a comment, if you’d like, and/or drop a kudos! tell me your thoughts!! are they in character? ill never know!!!1!1111
> 
> laughs into my hands. really, thank you for reading. i’m considering a shorter second chapter—no promises!—of an actual birthday celebration, but i haven’t really any ideas for it. if it bounces around in my head long enough i’ll be sure to think of something, though. 
> 
> have a great day! if it can’t be a great day, i hope it’s at least an alright one. happy birthday if it’s your birthday. 
> 
> i should draw connor in a dumb birthday hat.


End file.
